


Alembic Interludes

by stereokem



Series: Faith and Giles' Halfway House for Wayward Slayers [5]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Bar Scene, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Feelings, Flirting, Jujutsu, Protective Faith Lehane, Sparring, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wingman Faith Lehane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: The adventures of Faith and Giles continue. Moments in their lives, both quotidian and extreme.Chapter 1: Faith plays wingman to Giles at a bar.Chapter 2: Faith and Giles must deal with an insane Slayer.Chapter 3: Giles teaches Faith jujutsu.-“Just trying to make sure you don’t miss out on the fun, G.”“As much as I appreciate it, I don’t need a wingman.”A smirk curled the corners of Faith’s mouth. “I bet you don’t.”
Relationships: Rupert Giles & Faith Lehane, Rupert Giles/Faith Lehane, Rupert Giles/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Faith and Giles' Halfway House for Wayward Slayers [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120040
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	1. Welcome Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally gonna be a much longer piece/collection of connected short stories, but I decided to break it up, because some of them need more treatment than others. These 3 chapters are just 3 stories from the life of Faith and Giles. 
> 
> Not beta'd! These little stories lack my usual polish, mostly because I am busy writing what comes after.

Giles had thought that getting older might mean becoming wiser—wiser, and perhaps more removed from it all. Less inclined to get involved in the scrapes and messy tangles of life that young people found themselves so fraught and infatuated with. He thought that getting older would mean shedding his old desires and walking a more cerebral, scholarly, even monastic sort of life. Certainly, there would still be demons to be dealt with and the occasional apocalypse to avoid; but he could do so with the clarity of wisdom and experience.

But, as he got older, he realized how much of a delusion this kind of thinking was. How getting older gave one wisdom, yes, and experience, plenty, but did not quite quell the rages or lusts or foolishness of youth. It just made him more cognizant of his errors as he was committing them. Perhaps it did give him a certain amount of restraint; but this was no substitute for emotional remoteness. It was worse.

And, so, he was disappointed. At first, in ways that were difficult and painful.

And then, eventually, in ways that were strange and terrible and wonderful all at once.

-

Giles disliked the feeling of being adrift. In his youth, he battled it by conjuring dark magicks, sex, drugs, and making all sorts of bad decisions; after he was fired from the Watcher’s Council and had no civilian job to speak of, he floated for a while before finding purpose again.

Since the collapse of the Sunnydale Hellmouth and the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, he hadn’t had a spare moment to feel purposeless. New evil was afoot constantly; there were always demons to be tracked down, vampires to be laid to eternal rest, and a new prophecy or two that he found especially concerning and in need of further research. Yes, he had plenty to do. But he would not say, now, that he was _not_ adrift.

First, it was Stuttgart. Then, back to England briefly. Then to the United States for nearly three months. They stayed in dingy hotels, guest rooms in the houses of Giles’ acquaintances, bed-and-breakfasts, and the occasional clean, cookie-cutter hotel with terrible coffee. In the past, constantly being on the move would have given him a sense of purpose. It seemed to do so now. He woke up daily with the knowledge that he was here to do something. His mission was clear: track down and rehabilitate renegade Slayers. And he reveled in it, more than he thought he would.

“Dude,” Faith remarked on their last day in Chicago. They were standing on a street corner, Faith handing him some revolting-looking cylindrical meat substance on a bed of sugary bread, covered in ketchup and relish. “It’s been nice being back in the States, but I’m ready to go home.”

Three things surprised him about that. One, her use of the word “home”, referring of course to Giles’ modest property in England. Two, how much he agreed with her. And, three, that, when they did finally get back home and began once again to settle in, how at peace he felt.

He didn’t realize it until their third day back. It was evening, and they were both in the living room after dinner. Faith was busy sharpening her stakes (and throwing knives, which she had recently taken to) while some terrible television show played in the background on mute, the subtitles on. Giles was on the couch, long legs tucked up while he read from a large and smelly old book that Faith had wrinkled her nose at. He had been engulfed in the text one moment, and the next he was looking up as he reached for his mug of tea—

And, for some reason, the sight of Faith sitting casually on the floor with her weapons, looking unusually soft in a shapeless grey sweater and black jeans, gave Giles pause. He found himself staring at her, unable to look away.

He stared so long that she eventually twigged. She looked up, catching his gaze, her eyebrows quirking in surprise. “What?” she asked.

Giles shook his head. He wrapped his hand around the handle of his teacup and said, “Nothing.”

-

Months went by. Giles and Faith developed a rhythm of sorts: a week or two of quiet punctuated by traveling or the welcoming of a new Slayer into their house. Giles maintained contact with the different Slayer Squads around the country, as well as all of his personal contacts. They all knew to keep a lookout for rogue and wayward Slayers, knew that he was the one to call. Though he had a global network at this point, he still found much of his information coming through the Slayer Organization Headquarters in Scotland.

It was always Willow whom he dealt with. Never Buffy.

As the months wore on, it bothered him less and less. There was a time when her avoidance of him would have hurt; but not now.

He missed her. There was no denying that. But he did not _need_ her.

And, as time wore on, he thought of Buffy less and less. The ache within him ebbed. His devotion to her diminished. The soft candle of his fatherly affection for her never wavered, but the rest of it began to slowly weather, like a rock being worn by the crashing of waves or wind. He could feel it being reshaped, molecule-by-molecule, aging like the paint on a canvas. Like he himself was aging, day-by-day.

It would have happened on its own, he thought. He had told Faith months earlier that love—even a stubborn love—could not flourish without nourishment. By not feeding the feeling, it had no other fate but to wither.

That did not mean that Giles didn’t have . . . help.

-

“Don’t look now, but I think you just got meat-tagged,” Faith told him conspiratorially as she slid back into her barstool.

It was a Friday evening. Several hours ago, Giles had returned from delivering another Slayer to the Scotland headquarters. It was only the third time that he, personally, had delivered a Slayer to the Scotland Squad; after his first trip, he barely saw Buffy. There was always a perfunctory and stilted greeting at some point in the trip that left him feeling a bit like a can of pop gone flat. He always came back from these excursions feeling a bit drained and Faith, for whatever reason, always seemed a bit twitchy also, as if she too had gone to face Buffy. They had taken to solving this malaise with a few pints of beer.

This time, they had chosen to go out instead of stay in. They were at a pub that Giles hadn’t been to in years; like many places, it had been somewhat gentrified, but it still held a relatively cosy, laid-back atmosphere.

“See that kinda hot brunette lady in the corner booth?” Faith murmured as the bartender brought their second round of beers. Faith took her pint and then tilted her head to indicate behind her.

Giles took his beer in turn and looked casually over Faith’s shoulder—and immediately caught the gaze of the brunette woman sitting in question. She looked like she was out with two friends who were laughing gaily, but the woman was indeed looking at Giles. She gave him a small smile.

Giles felt the corners of his mouth lift in return, almost involuntarily. He turned his gaze back to Faith, who was smirking.

“She is totally checking you out, isn’t she?”

It took more effort than it should have for Giles not to shoot back, _And she isn’t the only one._ Faith had been looking at him appraisingly all evening, her eyes straying often from his face down to his forearms, visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Occasionally, they were caught by the hint of black ink on his lower bicep, the tattoo just barely visible beneath his sleeve.

Truth be told, Giles had been aware for a while now that Faith found him attractive. Giles was an old-pro at the game of attraction; he knew the signs well. Faith flirted with him openly, but it was deliberately silly, almost as a way to cover up how her eyes lingered on him when she thought he was distracted. Personally, Giles didn’t think himself much to look at: a middle-aged man with eyes that had been once described as kind, greying hair, a bookish look about him. He couldn’t imagine why someone as young and, frankly, hot as Faith would ever look twice at him. It was absurd.

All the same, he could not help but be deeply flattered by her attention.

(And, truth be told, return some of it in kind.)

Faith sat back a little in her stool, leaning against her elbow on the bar. “So, you gonna do anything about it?” she waggled her eyebrows at him.

Giles rolled his eyes in turn. “What do you suggest?” he asked dryly.

Faith shrugged. “I dunno. Send her a drink? I honestly have no bloody clue how Brits flirt with each other.”

“We stare with repressed longing at one another over tea and biscuits until someone breaks the silence to ask after an ailing relative.”

“Oh my god, _shut_ _up_.” 

“I assure you, it’s quite traditional.”

Faith rolled her eyes and took a healthy sip of her beer. “Seriously, though. You should go lay some moves on her. It would do you good.” She paused. “I’m, uh, planning on being out late, if that helps.”

Giles raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Faith nodded. “Yeah, I’m feeling antsy. I figured I would swing back by the club, see if Tanner is feeling generous enough to give me some shifts. There’s also a club opening up a few blocks down.” She shifted in her seat. “Thought it might be fun to check out. Stir up some trouble.”

Giles made a “hmm” noise and took another sip of his beer. Though Faith was less of the party animal she had been in her teenage years, it was still no secret that she enjoyed a good night out. As comfortable as their evenings in were, she often got an itch to go out and “stir up trouble”, as it were. She often went dancing, texting Giles her general location just to be safe and as agreed. He also suspected that she often found men to sleep with; Giles never deliberately waited up for her but, sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, he heard her return at three or four in the morning, long after clubs had closed. He made his assumptions, but they didn’t really talk about it.

And, really, what was there to discuss?

As he set down his beer, Giles flicked his gaze back to Faith. She was looking intently at his upper arm, interest obviously piqued.

“You ever gonna tell me about that tattoo?” she asked, gesturing to where a dark tendril of ink was poking out from under Giles’ sleeve. “I’ve said it before: I was young and reckless.”

It was a deflection. He hadn’t really talked to Faith about his past, and didn’t really feel the need to. He knew, though, that she was curiously—perhaps even intensely curious. She surveyed him over the rim of her beer

Giles shifted, somewhat self-consciously smoothing at his sleeve, not quite bringing it down over the tattoo.

“Sounds like you’re being cagey,” she replied.

“Perhaps a little.”

A thought flickered across Faith’s expression and she grinned. “You should roll up your sleeve a bit more. Chicks dig weird ink. Bet you Miss Dish in the corner would go for it.”

“You really are incorrigible,” Giles replied long-sufferingly, though he wasn’t really bothered. He chanced a glance at the woman again, finding himself meeting her gaze. She really was quite lovely.

Faith missed nothing. “Just trying to make sure you don’t miss out on the fun, G.”

“As much as I appreciate it, I don’t need a wingman.”

A smirk curled the corners of Faith’s mouth. “I bet you don’t.”

It was Giles’ turn to roll his eyes. “Besides, she’s here with friends. It would seem rude to approach her so boldly.”

With utter insouciance, Faith twisted in her chair to look back at the table where the woman and her friends were. “Well, this just in: they’re settling the bill and looks like her friends are getting up to leave. Now’s your chance.”

She wasn’t wrong: each of the three women were settling up, and one of them, a blonde, was standing up, fishing around in a rather gauche-looking purse. Giles shook his head. “There’s just one more problem.”

“What?”

“I’ve been sitting here with _you_ for the past two hours.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“She either thinks that we’re . . . _together_ or that you’re my daughter.” People often made either assumption; and, ironically, both were more likely scenarios than the truth. “Either way, she’s unlikely to intervene.”

Faith got a thoughtful look on her face, and Giles was reminded of the few times people had made either assumption of him and Buffy. He had felt an incredible and undeserved swell of pride when people mistook Buffy for his daughter. On the other hand, it had bothered him greatly when people made the other assumption.

Strangely, with Faith, he found himself flattered either way.

“Good point,” she said suddenly. She downed the rest of her beer, set it on the counter, and dug out a few pounds for the bartender. “I’ll just make it clear, then.”

“What—”

Before he could finish his question, Faith got up from her stool, put one hand on his shoulder, and leaned in, brushing a quick kiss against his cheek.

Stunned, he watched as she stepped back and, in a somewhat carrying voice, said in an almost perfect British accent: “Later, dad. I’m off to work. We’ll catch up tomorrow, yeah?”

She gave him a winning grin and a wink as she whirled, striding off and out of the bar. He watched the door of the establishment close behind her.

Faith’s exit had caught the attention of several pubgoers, including the woman and her friends. Giles, unconcerned but mildly curious, watched as the brunette woman and her friends exchanged looks. Then, seeming to come to a decision, the two other women made their way towards the exit after Faith.

And, lo’ and behold, the brunette approached the bar where Giles sat.

“Hello,” she said in greeting. Her smile was lovely and warm. She indicated to the seat now vacated by Faith. “Mind if I join you?”

Summoning his equilibrium and his charm, Giles smiled at her. “Please.”


	2. Personal Best

Faith knew that violence was in her nature.

It was like a fire burning inside her, a little pilot light always kept on a low flame— until a situation arose that made it grow into an inferno. She learned from a young age that she could use violence and force to get her way. That these were effective means of making one’s way in the world were lessons that she learned first at the hands of other people. After a while—after enough experience— violence became a tool that she herself could wield.

It was one of the reasons she had been such a fucking world-class teen delinquent. It was also one of the reasons why she was such an effective Slayer.

Buffy would always be the Chosen One, Golden Girl. Buffy was the one you called when you had a moral conundrum or needed to thwart a prophecy. But if you needed a dirty job done dirt cheap? If you needed someone who would come in and take care of business, minimal questions asked? If you needed someone who wasn’t afraid to bat on either side of the line of morality? You called Faith.

Faith was brutal because she expected brutality. She was crude because she expected crudeness. She was cold and aloof because she expected others to be so towards her. For a long time, that code of conduct worked for her. It still did, for the most part. Violence and power were still competing for the spot of number one currency in her world, the world of demons and Slaying. A fist in the face and a stake in the heart was still often the first answer to most of her problems. But it wasn’t the _only_ answer.

Working with Giles had taught her a few things. He had given her respect and loyalty and only asked the same in return. He didn’t treat her like a ticking time bomb, but he also didn’t shy away from her capacity for savagery. He accepted her as she was. And he allowed her to be something other than the fuck-up that everyone else seemed to expect her to be. Working with him, she found that she could do good without resorting to violence. That she had the capacity for other things.

It quelled her doubts, for a while. It was nice to know that she _could_ do something else, if she really wanted.

But, deep down, something in her knew that it was all temporary. That it was only a matter of time before everything went up in smoke.

Because, deep down, Faith knew that violence was the only thing she was really good for. 

-

Six months and as many rogue Baby Slayers under their collective belts, Faith began calling “codes” for new Slayers that they met.

Giles hadn’t quite cottoned on at first. “What?” he asked blankly, when she had told him they had a Code “Klara”.

“Code ‘Klara’,” Faith repeated dumping her duffel onto another stiff hotel bed. They were in Bucharest, chasing down an as-yet-unnamed Slayer. “Homeless-slash-runaway. Like Klara Sommer.”

“I don’t think Klara would appreciate you making her an archetype for all homeless runaways,” Giles replied drily.

Even still, Faith continued to call codes, all named after previous saves: Code “Renee” meant reckless partier; Cody “Lauren” meant drug addict; Code “Hillary” meant anger management issues and delinquency. On down the list. And, as much as Giles seemed to disapprove of the designations, they did serve a bit of a purpose: it put them in a frame of mind to deal with certain vices or issues.

There was, of course, one code that Faith was hoping to never call.

-

“The Lewiston Coven phoned.”

Faith looked up from the couch where she was lounging, reading a trashy magazine. Giles had just walked into the room and was removing his glasses to rub at his temples.

“Yeah? What does Ursula want?” Faith asked, trying to keep her tone mild. Ursula Warren was the leader of the Lewiston Coven in Maine, and had assisted Faith and Giles with their last trip to the States. Faith was _not_ a fan. Partially because she couldn’t stand Ursula’s Glenda the Good Witch vibe, partially because she was pretty sure Giles had helped her put up some shelves when they stayed in her house. “Business or pleasure?” Faith couldn’t help but add, snidely.

“Business,” Giles replied, and Faith knew immediately from his tone that, whatever it was, it was serious. He hadn’t yet put his glasses back on, and was still covering his face with his hand.

Faith put down her magazine. The latest on Lindsey Lohan could wait.

“What is it?”

“They’ve located a Slayer in Richmond, Virginia. They think she’s dangerous.”

Faith allowed for a long silence after that statement.

“Well, only one way to find out,” Faith she eventually, getting up from the couch and heading upstairs to pack.

-

Their Slayer was Scarlett Bradford, youngest daughter of the wealthy socialites Mary and Benson Bradford. They were old money, uber-wealthy and uber-private. Three of their four children had gone to fancy prep schools and were now either enrolled or graduated from Ivy League colleges—all except for Scarlett, who seemed to be mainly homeschooled and confined to the large manor-house.

Little was known about Scarlett or why, precisely, she was kept largely hidden from public eye; but, according to Giles’ network of sources, there were rumors that Scarlett was “touched in the head”; that she’d had several episodes of incredible violence paired with incredible strength.

Taking in all this information from Giles, Faith tried not to pass any judgement. Almost mechanically, she did as he instructed: When they got into town, she advertised herself as a college drop-out looking for domestic work. She applied to the vacant, live-in position at the Bradford manor house. She went to her little interview and performed just as Giles had instructed her. She got the job. She went to work, mopping floors, dusting, preparing the dining table, polishing silver. She slept in the servants’ quarters across the hall from Will, the butler, and Beth, the cook. She didn’t dare go back to town to meet with Giles, but she did text him each evening.

For the first a week, she took on Giles’ traditional role: she watched.

And the more she saw, the more she knew that the feeling that had been crawling around in her gut was right.

-

Faith waited with bated breath as her mobile rang. She shakily brought her lit cigarette to her lips, glancing around once more to make sure that she was alone. She was standing outside in the back of the house, in a corner and behind a rosebush that was in sore need of pruning. She listened to the dial tone, silently praying _C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. . . ._

Giles picked up.

_“Faith, I told you not to—”_

“We got a Code ‘Gigi’.”

She heard him exhale harshly on the other end. _“Are you sure?”_

Faith nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. She raised a cigarette to her lips, darting her gaze around at her surroundings. She was Still clear. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

_“How—”_

“Later,” Faith said tersely, exhaling the cigarette smoke. “The butler—Will—thinks I’m out having a quick smoke to chill my nerves. I don’t have a lot of time before I go back in.” She pulled at the collar of her button-up shirt. She’d been wearing the nondescript uniform of a modern domestic servant for the past week, and had yet to get used to the starch, the damn buttons, or how stiff the shirt collar felt around her neck. Actually, given how uncomfortable she was with _all_ of it—the waiting on people, the dutiful cleaning, the deferring to ones’ superiors—it was a wonder the Bradford’s hadn’t realized what an outsider she was.

Or, maybe, as rumor had it, they were so desperate for help that they would take anyone. According to the butler, the Bradfords had gone through four maids in the last eight months, three of whom hadn’t been heard from or seen since they quit. With turnover like that, and a house as grand as this one, it was no wonder they were willing to take a chance on veritable trailer trash like Faith.

And they were willing to turn a blind eye to anyone who did the same for their daughter.

_“Are you all right?”_ Giles asked, and Faith was almost touched by the concern in his voice. _“Are you safe_ —”

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” she said. She heard the sound of a window opening upstairs. “I’ll tell you about it later. But I’m sure.”

-

Since Faith was playing the part of live-in housemaid, she didn’t have much of an excuse to leave during the week; however, she only worked Monday through Saturday and so, Sunday morning, she told Will she was going into town for some fun, called herself a cab, and went straight to Giles.

As concerned and grave as he seemed, Faith was glad to see him. The warmth she felt at the sight of him was short-lived though: When she got back to the room Giles had rented—a two-bed affair above a tavern-like bar— Faith told him everything.

She told him how Mr. and Mrs. Bradford were barely home, how they spent almost every waking moment in town. She told him how the other three staff members barely spoke, except Will, who had been there the longest, but even he was reticent to tell her much. She told him about Scarlett Bradford: pretty, pale, blonde, almost like a living doll and just about as animate. She spent most of her days sitting on floral couches staring into space or walking around the house like a ghost, her glassy blue eyes barely seeing you when you passed by—except, when she did notice you, her attention was intense, like that of a cat catching sight of a mouse. How she said things in a soft sing-song Southern drawl, harsh things, nonsensical things that faded half-formed before Scarlett turned her gaze away again.

She told Giles how, when Mr. and Mrs. Bradford _were_ home it was as plain as day that they were terrified of their own daughter.

And, finally, she told him how, Thursday night at dinner, Beth, the cook, had been serving the family and had accidentally spilled a single drop of soup onto the hem of Scarlett’s dress. And Scarlett—without any fucking warning— had reached out and broken her forearm, broken it so violently that the bone was poking through the skin. How she had gotten up and started choking Beth before Mr. Bradford finally got up and first pleaded with Scarlett, then pried her from Beth. How Scarlett had looked at him, her glassy and flat affect, considering him for a long moment before quietly sitting back down.

“It was so weird, G.” Faith said. Her hands itched for a smoke, but this was a no-smoking establishment, so she took instead to pacing back and forth. “It was like, one moment she was crazy angry, ready to tear this girl apart for something so stupid and small—and then, the next, like she wasn’t really there.”

She stopped, turning to face Giles, who was sat on the edge of a bed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped. He looked at her, troubled.

“You remember Spike’s main squeeze?” she asked when he didn’t say anything. “The chick that Angel sired?”

“Drusilla.”

Faith nodded. “I only met her once. She gave me the creeps.” Distractedly, Faith pulled at her blouse; it was a frumpy thing, not something _she_ would ever pick out but appropriate for her cover: Ashley might be a college drop-out, but she was still a good Christian southern girl. “Scarlett’s a dead ringer for that same vibe.”

“You think she’s insane.”

“I think she’s one sandwich short of a picnic. I’m surprised she’s not in a rubber room. I mean, by all accounts she was loony _before_ she got her Slayer powers. Now she’s just . . . ”

“Unmanageable.”

“Yeah.”

She looked to Giles, wanting to meet his gaze, but he had gotten up and was now walking over towards the window. Faith didn’t know if he was deliberately avoiding her gaze but it was irritating either way. Annoyed, she began stripping off her frumpy blouse—she had a white cami underneath, so it wouldn’t offend Giles’ delicate sensibilities.

Throwing the blouse onto the vacant bed, she sat down heavily next to it. “So,” she addressed Giles’ back, “What do we do?”

It was a dumb question: Faith knew exactly what they had to do. She’d been mentally preparing herself to do it since she’d called him on Thursday night. The thing was, though, she wasn’t gonna do it unless Giles told her to. Unless he gave her permission. Unless. . . .

“I’m thinking,” he replied in a low voice, keeping his back to her. “I need to consider our options.”

Faith laughed, and the bitterness of it surprised even her. “We have options? That’s new.”

Giles didn’t reply.

“Look,” Faith began, and she didn’t really know what she was saying or why she was saying it until it was out of her mouth. “Scarlett . . . I don’t think she’s, like, evil. She’s not exactly like Gigi. Gigi had this whole plan to take out Buffy and dominate the world . . . but Scarlett doesn’t have the capacity for those kinds of thoughts. At least, I don’t think so. All she cares about is her favorite dresses and . . . well, I actually don’t know what else. But she’s been living in that house all her life, more or less content with the occasional tantrum.”

Giles turned to her then. The light spilling in the window made him little more than a dark silhouette, his expression hidden from her. “What are you suggesting?” 

Faith chewed her lip. “I don’t know. Can we . . . can the new Council take her?”

Giles folded his arms, leaning back against the window sill. “And do what with her?”

“I don’t know. They were gonna lock me up, right? Take me to England, put me in some kinda Slayer prison. Does that place still exist? Can we—”

“They weren’t going to lock you up,” Giles cut in. “They were going to kill you.”

Faith blinked, surprised. She hadn’t known that. 

“It’s the reason why I didn’t call the Council when I learned of your actions. Wesley—being both dutiful and naïve— made the call.” Giles removed his glasses. “I do believe that they would have tried to reason with you. Appeal to your better nature—”

Faith, recovering slightly, snorted derisively. “As if.”

“—but they were not a very patient lot,” Giles continued, ignoring her. “They would have, rather quickly, found you to be a lost cause. And they would have killed you. They nearly killed Buffy, in your body, when she made her escape.”

Faith was silent. _Great_. One more thing for her to mull over during a sleepless night.

“In any case, the point is: the new Council, though different in its principles, does not currently have the resources or the infrastructure to imprison a Slayer for any length of time.” Giles sighed. “Even if we did have the option, I don’t think locking her up would be safe. I have been doing a little digging of my own, learning as much as I can about the Bradford’s, about Scarlett. The last time she was allowed outside of the manor grounds, she nearly killed a rider’s horse with her bare hands. There have been other such incidences. And . . . well, remember the three maids who worked there before you and haven’t been heard from since they quit their positions?”

Faith nodded.

“I can’t find any proof that they actually quit. It’s all hearsay in town. Mrs. Bradford has told everyone that the maids left . . . but I have reason to believe that they might still be there.” He paused. “Not alive.”

Faith’s heart felt like it had turned to stone in her chest. She felt herself shutting down, just a little. She had been stupid. Stupid to think it wouldn’t come down to this.

But hadn’t Giles said he was considering their “options”? What the fuck did that mean? 

“So, then what the fuck _are_ our options, huh?” Faith asked, nearly spitting the question. She was angry and, fuck, she couldn’t be arsed to try and reign it in right now. “What are you having to consider? What I’m hearing from you is that we can’t save her, and we can’t lock her up, so the only other option is that I kill her—”

“Or _I_ kill her.”

That stopped Faith short. She squinted at him, trying to see his expression. “Excuse you, what?”

Instead of answering her right away, Giles pushed himself away from the window and went over to his travel bag, near the end of his bed. He unzipped it, and pulled out his first aid kit. He then sat down on the bed next to faith and removed a long box from the kit; carefully, he opened it and showed Faith a small syringe loaded with a clear substance.

“This is potassium chloride,” he told her. They were sitting relatively close on the bed, and she could see his expression clearly now despite the dimness of the room: it was grave, determined. “At this concentration, an injection will stop the heart almost instantly. I obtained it when I first suspected that Scarlett might be . . . might have to be put down. My plan is to be called to the house as a doctor, to hypnotize Scarlett, and to administer this to her.” 

Faith stared at him. “Why?”

Giles placed the syringe back in its protective box, then back into the kit—and, then, hesitantly, lightly, placed his hand over hers where it was resting on the bedspread.

His touch felt like an electric shock to her nervous system. Faith felt her eyes widen and she looked up at him, startled.

“Because I don’t want to ask you to do this again so soon,” he told her, looking her dead in the eye. “I told you that I regretted asking you to kill Genevieve. I don’t want you to bear this burden of our work alone.” 

She could see what he was doing. She saw the emotion in his eyes, the way he looked at her intensely. He was worried about her. Worried that she couldn’t take it. Steeling herself, Faith pulled her hand away from the warmth of his touch.

“I signed up for this, G,” she told him, and there was no anger in her voice now, just resolute calm. “I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when I told you I wanted to play Slayer Social Worker. I knew that there would be ones out there I couldn’t save. I’m only good at two other things, remember: Slaying and hurting people. Might as well do what I’m good at.”

Giles didn’t look convinced. He shook his head once. “Please. Just let me try.”

Faith considered him for a long moment.

-

_“. . . local news at ten. We are interrupting this program to bring you breaking news about an evolving case in Richmond, Virginia, where four bodies were discovered slain at the manor home of Mary and Benson Bradford. One of the bodies was that of their eighteen-year-old daughter, Scarlett Bradford. The other three belonged to former housemaids who, according to Mrs. Bradford, had quit their positions several months ago. The most recent housemaid, reported to be one 25 -year-old Ashley Tine, is still missing. Police are investigating. . . .”_

“Well. That went down like a led fucking balloon.”

Faith leaned against the doorway to the living room and watched as Giles, with some effort, turned his attention from the TV and craned his neck over the back of the chair to look at her. The movement looked painful, but she wasn’t about to show him any pity. Serves him right for being an idiot.

“Yes,” he replied in a long-suffering manner. “So, you’ve said. Several times.”

Faith made a non-committal grunt and wandered over towards him. Giles was sat in one of two plush chairs facing the television in the small living room, so Faith plopped down in the other chair. It was almost too soft, nearly swallowing her as she sat in it. All the furniture in this damn house was like that. Faith wondered how the softness of the chair was treating Giles and his cracked ribs.

They were back in Lewiston, Maine, chilling at Ursula’s place. They had been there for three days after high tailing it from Richmond. Faith wanted to get a move on soon, what with the police investigation picking up and the story hitting national news, but Giles wasn’t in any condition to travel yet, especially by magic. Three cracked ribs, a neck wound (that missed his major arteries but had bled like anything), and a concussion did not a strong Watcher make. Fortunately, he was in Ursula’s very capable hands. When not attending to coven duties (and, you know her day job) the woman fluttered around constantly, making sure Giles had everything he needed. Faith had stayed well back.

Actually, she had kind of been avoiding being alone with Giles since they got here. He had been in bad shape when they fled the Bradford manor, and Faith hadn’t really known what to do with him. She just knew they needed to get out of there, fast. So, she rummaged in his first-aid kit, found some painkillers, made him take them. Then, she bandaged the wounds that she could see (all relatively superficial, thank Christ), and made him lay back in the reclined seat of their rental car while she put them on the highway, driving through the night and making it to Lewiston in ten hours flat. She hadn’t even bothered to call Ursula to let her know they were coming. She just showed up at the woman’s door with a disoriented Giles in tow.

As much as Faith didn’t like Ursula Warren, she couldn’t deny the woman came in clutch. Ursula immediately got the coven healer (who was also a paramedic) to come and attend to Giles. Once the healer/paramedic had patched him up sufficiently, Ursula watched Giles around the clock, redressing his wounds, plying him with herbal painkillers, gently talking to him. Faith let her. She had needed her own space. And time to think.

She had spent the entire car ride from Richmond to Lewiston alternately being angry with herself and angry at Giles. She’d spent the first day at Ursula’s house mostly sleeping and trying to sort herself out. Reviewing in her mind what had happened in Richmond. Trying to make heads or tails of it. 

They had put Giles’ plan into motion that Tuesday. Since Beth was out with a broken forearm, it was mostly just Faith and Will the butler around the house during the day. So, on Tuesday, when Will went into town to procure dinner, Faith called Giles. He had played up the doctor act well, dressing in some of his old tweeds and talking to the non-responsive Scarlett in a clinical manner. He’d proceeded with his examination of her, then his hypnosis. Faith had stood in the corner of the room, watching like a hawk. Under Giles’ care, Scarlett’s glassy eyes had clouded, become completely unfocused. It seemed like the hypnosis had worked.

Except, when Giles had begun to approach her arm with the needle, something went wrong.

Scarlett had snapped back to life. She had grabbed Giles by the throat and threw him across the room, her nails cutting into his throat as she did so. Faith had seen the blood spurt from him almost as if it was in slow-motion. She’d seen Giles hit the wall, his head making a loud _crack_ and then his body slumping into a heap on the floor, motionless. She’d felt her own heart stop for an instant.

And, then, Scarlett was on him, howling in fury, her mouth open and angry red—

Well. If Faith’s capacity for violence was like a pilot light, then Scarlett attacking Giles was like a fucking gas leak.

Everything that had happened after that was a blur to Faith. She had blinked, and the next thing she knew, she had one hand around Scarlett’s crushed windpipe, another driving a steel poker clean through her stomach and splintering the floorboards beneath her.

Faith had looked into Scarlett’s face as she died. It was the one time that Scarlett’s glassy blue eyes had seemed suddenly, utterly clear.

Faith blinked, the memory fading quickly. She cast her gaze to the T.V., which was now showing footage of the front of the Bradford manor. There were also mugshots of Mary and Benson Bradford. “That’s the last time you try to do my job for me,” she muttered darkly. 

From his chair, Giles gave a painful-sounding laugh. “No guarantees.”

Faith shot him a look. “Please. You nearly became your second-favorite breakfast food: toast.”

“Yes. Thank you for preventing that.” In an almost thoughtless gesture, he placed the hand not holding his mug of tea gently over his cracked ribs. He must have pressed down experimentally, because Faith saw a flicker of pain cross his face. “How are you holding up?” he asked her, moving his hand away.

“I’m fine.” And it was true: she _was_ fine. She had murdered a woman—a girl—in cold blood and she felt absolutely fine.

The thing was, it sucked. Royally. She didn’t _like_ killing people. She hated that she had to do it. But the thought of Giles’ body, slumped in a lifeless heap on the floor . . . it had chilled Faith. She had legitimately thought him dead for a moment.

Looking at him now, battered but whole and _alive,_ she knew that she would continue to be fine.

She tore her gaze away from Giles. She sometimes couldn’t bare looking at him when he looked all soft and pathetic and . . . whatever. Faith directly her attention back to the TV, ignoring the feeling of warmth curling in her stomach. A police officer in Virginia was on screen now, giving a noncommittal form statement about an ongoing investigation.

_“. . . we are still trying to locate the missing Ashley Tine. If you have any information on her—”_

Faith snorted. “Good fucking luck.”

Giles nodded. “In any case, we should leave in a day or two. Just to be safe. I will be ready.”

Faith continued watching the T.V. “Fine. But when we get back to England, you’re staying put for a week. No Slayers, no demon-hunting. No lifting heavy books. You will baby those fucking ribs.”

Giles looked annoyed at that. “Really, Faith, I’ll be—”

“Eh, eh, eh,” Faith cut in. “You will stay put Rupert Giles, and you will like it.” She paused, suddenly, grinning and narrowing her eyes. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

Giles looked at her in surprise, his eyebrows raising; then, after a moment, an amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied quietly.

“Good,” Faith replied. “Now, drink your damn tea.”


	3. Yielding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not practice jujutsu; I did a cursory bit of research on the internet. So, if I said something incorrect, please let me know.

Growing up coming from a long line of Watchers and dealers in the supernatural, Giles knew the perils of the world, seen and unseen. He knew that one must be prepared, body and mind, for anything.

To look at him, most would say that he had definitely over-prioritized the “mind” portion of his training relative to the “body”. It was certainly true that he found it much easier to throw himself into books and lore than into physical training. But that certainly did not mean that he couldn’t hold his own in a fight. In fact, episodes of sparring with the supernaturally strong notwithstanding, Giles was a rather accomplished in several arenas of combat.

For example, he was (perhaps unsurprisingly) a formidable fencer. He had a practical knowledge of a vast array of weaponry, medieval and modern. He was also technically proficient in most majority martial arts forms, including karate, judo, krav maga, and, his favorite (academically-speaking), jujutsu.

Of course, when he had related this to Faith casually one evening over dinner, she had raised an unconvinced eyebrow at him.

“Really?” she asked, not bothering to hide her skepticism.

Giles nodded. In a past life, he might have been offended at her disbelief; now, he simply replied: “Really. I may not be much of a match for a Slayer, but I do know how to apply my knowledge.” He pushed his glasses up his nose with his middle finger.

Faith barely hid her smirk. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”

Giles raised an eyebrow. “You want me to teach you jujutsu?”

Faith shrugged. “I mean, sure. I don’t need the whole philosophy, but you could at least teach me some moves. Promise I’ll hold back on the Slayer strength,” she added, seeing his apprehension. 

Giles considered for a moment. Then, he nodded. “Fine. We can start tomorrow.”

-

 _Thud_.

“Motherfucker.”

As an academic with an interest in languages, it was fascinating to Giles how that one piece of profanity could have so many different meanings depending on its intonation. Typically, Faith said it quietly, under her breath, when dealing with something rather unpleasant. Other times, she uttered it in pain, tight and harsh, when she sustained an injury. This time, however, the word had a distinct lilt to it: there was surprise and the distinct ring of someone who was impressed.

Giles looked down at Faith where was laying on the blue mat. She had tied her brown hair back in a low ponytail and was wearing yoga shorts, a white t-shirt, no makeup, and a bemused expression. He reached down to offer her a hand up. She accepted it, pulling herself up.

“How did you _do_ that?” she asked, the incredulity plain in her voice.

Giles couldn’t help but feel gratified. Buffy had never been impressed with his skills before—although, to be fair, Buffy had already learned jujitsu and had seldom shown interest in anything else that Giles was actually good at.

“The word ‘jujutsu’ can be translated as ‘yielding-art’. Similar to Aikido, many of its techniques are concerned with using the energy of one’s opponent against them. However, unlike Aikido, the goal of jujutsu is to dominate your opponent. This kind of technique can allow you to subdue an opponent much larger than yourself— even without the benefit of Slayer powers.”

She had told him to hold the philosophy, but he found that he couldn’t quite help himself, and that Faith was much more willing to listen to such things if they were interspersed with bouts of activity. Faith put her hands on her hips while he was talking, watching him with curiosity. It was rare, he thought, that he taught a young person something they genuinely wanted to know. It could be a first, in fact.

Eagerly, like a child at Christmas, Faith took a step away from him and readied her stance.

“Show me again.”

-

 _Thud_.

Giles hit the matt soundly, his feet knocked from under him. Thank christ these things were relatively soft. He wasn’t prepared to admit that he was old, but he certainly wasn’t as spry as he used to be. Getting tossed around by a Slayer—even a Slayer who was admittedly holding back—was no picnic.

As he blinked, the visage of Faith appeared before him, looking down, her brown hair shadowing her face. “You aight, G?”

Giles reached up to right his glasses. “Erm, yes. Quite. That was very good.”

Faith grinned like anything and offered him a hand up. He took it, marveling at how small yet strong hers was.

“Told you I’d get it,” she said triumphantly.

They were well into day two of jujutsu training, and Faith was progressing quite nicely. Giles had taught her some basic holds and throws the previous day, and was now permitting her to try several on him. Gently, of course.

Giles could hold his own in a fight against a normal human. But against a Slayer . . . well, Faith could throw him around like a wet rag if she wanted to. The fact that she chose to play nicely was a testament to her physical self-control.

She bounced back and forth on her bare feet, much like a boxer circling the ring. “Can I try I again?” she asked.

Gamely, Giles allowed her to try the throw twice more. He also took her through the series of holds he had taught her. This, he thought, was actually quite ideal to their task. Faith’s typical fighting style was not based in any formal martial arts the way Buffy’s had been. She had the requisite skill, of course, but Faith mainly fought with ferocity and brute force. It was a perfectly reasonable way to approach vampire-slaying, but was less well-suited to chasing— and, occasionally, subduing— rogue Slayers. Jujutsu provided an avenue for Faith to engage in combat that did not direct her energy towards killing. Rather, the goal here was to make the other person . . . yield.

“Good,” Giles grunted as Faith put him in an effective arm hold. She released him and took a step back as he righted himself. “You’re making excellent progress.”

Faith, who had bent down to grab a towel and her water bottle, looked pleased. “Not every day that the delinquent is a star pupil,” she said, popping the tab on her bottle and taking a long drink. Giles, distracted, watched her throat bob. Faith had a very fine sheen of sweat going, which made her olive skin seem to glow, even in the low light of the basement training room. It was . . . a little diverting.

When Giles actually registered what Faith had said, he frowned. “You’re not a delinquent.”

Faith grinned and tossed the towel at him. “Tell that to my parole officer.”

-

By the week’s end, Faith was proficient in basic maneuvers, holds, and throws. Giles continued to evaluate and critique her technique but, all in all, she was doing very well— unsurprisingly. As far as Giles knew, all Slayers had a magically gifted fluency in martial arts. It was an enviable trait, especially considering that all of Giles’ training had taken him hundreds of hours of dedicated practice. Though, given that he was teaching a Slayer, he found that his ego could not be bruised.

His physical body on the other hand. . . .

“Very good,” Giles said in a somewhat strained voice, as Faith demonstrated another hold on him. He tapped his chest to let her know to release.

She did so, stepping smoothly back from him and allowing him to regain his footing. She grinned, wiping a strand of hair back from her face. “I feel like I’m really getting the hang of this,” she said, and he could hear the pleased note in her voice.

“Yes,” he replied, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his glasses. “Quite. I think next week we will practice some ground grappling.”

Faith’s eyes widened. “You mean we’re actually gonna spar?”

Giles pressed his lips together. He had been considering it, and was hoping not to regret his choice. “Yes. I trust you to hold back your strength and, realistically, the most you can do from the ground is break one of my bones.” _And not six of them at once,_ he mentally added.

Faith’s face fell a little. “I . . . I don’t want to hurt you.”

Giles nodded. “I know. You’ve shown impressive restraint in these sessions, and I am confident that you will continue to do so. In any case, my focus will be to teach you technique, so there will be little need to actually exert force—on your part.”

She nodded, then cocked her head. “Can we try a little now?” she asked, and he almost smiled at the hopeful little lilt in her voice.

“Not today,” he said. “I need to do some cross-referencing this afternoon. And I’d like to shower.”

He watched as something strange passed across Faith’s face at that last comment. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he’d seen the beginnings of a blush begin to form—

He turned his back quickly, and bent down to retrieve his water bottle from the floor. He was just straightening up when, from behind him, Faith much-to-casually said:

“What if I did this?”

Giles turned just as Faith came at him.

It was a bald-faced attacked, completely obvious, but it was mean to be. He dropped his water bottle and side-stepped her strike, watching it sail past him; he took the opportunity then to grab her wrist and shoulder and, expertly, throw her to the ground.

She hit the training mats with flat _thwack_ and a grunt. When she didn’t get up, Giles, amused, stepped nearer to stand over her. Faith smirked up at him.

“You like me flat on my back, don’t you?” she asked, her mouth twisting coyly.

Before he could reply, one of her long, lean legs swept out and knocked his feet from beneath him.

He, too, hit the mats with a _thwack_ and, before he knew what was happening, Faith was on top of him. They grappled, Giles’ body automatically trying to gain control of Faith’s legs and head while Faith seemed to simply wriggle in his grasp, twisting her legs and her wrists, shifting her weight. He managed to gain the upper hand once, flipping them over so that she was beneath him. She was uncoordinated, unused to this kind of close combat and, if this were a fair fight, Giles’ might have had a chance at winning; but Faith eventually put a stop to it, using her superior strength to flip them once again so that she was kneeling astride him, using her hands to grip both of Giles’ wrists and pin them by his head. He struggled against them futilely, looking up at her through his slightly askew glasses. 

Grinning triumphantly and breathing slightly faster than normal, Faith said: “But I prefer it on top.”

Giles couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Color me surprised,” he panted.

He twisted his wrists but she held firm, so he used his leverage on the ground to buck and twist his hips. He didn’t manage to throw her and, in retaliation, she sat back on him fully, using her weight and her feet hooked around his legs to keep him down. He bucked again, and something in her eyes flashed—

All of a sudden, Giles stopped.

He was suddenly very aware of the position they were in. Of her sitting astride his hips, the weight of her, her warm bod, her fast breathing, how close her face was to his. Somehow, without his noticing, a flicker of arousal had flared up in his belly and was threatening to become. . . obvious. Slightly panicked, he blinked, looking up into Faith’s face: her skin was slightly flushed, and her eyes were dilated, the black centers nearly overtaking the brown iris—

Swiftly, Faith clambered off of him, standing.

Somewhat shakily, Giles sat up and watched as Faith turned her back to him and picked up her own water bottle. Ordinarily, she would have offered him a hand up from the ground; in this case, he was grateful that she didn’t. He got to his feet, and then bent down to grab his own water bottle from where he had dropped it. Steeling himself and willing his heartrate to return to normal, he rolled his shoulders once and took a deep breath.

“Effective, but not jujutsu technique,” he said, injecting some amount of admonishment into his tone. “I’ll teach you proper form next week.”

Faith nodded, her back still turned to him; she stretched her neck, then her arms, a touch too casually to be truly insouciant. “Cool.”

Giles hesitated. He felt as though he should . . . say something.

In the end, he simply said, “I’m going to shower.”

“Don’t hog all the hot water,” Faith muttered at his retreating back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie. It took a lot of self-control not to end this fic with Giles jerking off in the shower. Maybe I'll release as an extended version of this fic....


End file.
